Read Online Death Of A Diva by Derek Farrell - Free Book Online

trendsetters, the beautiful people .”
    “And as beautiful people ,” Caz interrupted, “they attend ten cocktail parties a week; twenty at this time of year. And they never – never – eat. They drink like fishes and, so long as the alcohol is above eighty percent proof and ice cold, their taste buds won’t spot Syrian scotch from Johnnie Black.”
    Ali sighed, a noise that spoke volumes about her belief in our abilities. “You’re the boss,” she muttered to me and strolled off to make sure that Dash and Ray were properly hammering the corks into the Shampagne. “Oh, careful in there,” she inclined her head towards the bar, “it’s another bloody minefield.”
    Caz raised an eyebrow. Minefield , she mouthed, at which point Jenny Foster’s voice drifted through to us.
    “I mean, who does she think she is?” she was demanding. “I could – oh, Dommy – I could fucking kill her. Are you even listening to me, Dominic?”
    Mouret’s voice was heard murmuring something we couldn’t make out and then Jenny piped up once again, “Well that’s bloody easy for you to say; you haven’t had to put up with her all these years. It’s been hell. Her and her tantrums.”
    Again, Mouret’s voice spoke up and again we couldn’t make out what he was actually saying. But this time there was a definite tone to the sound.
    “No, Dom, it’s not nothing . My whole teens, ruined by that cow. And now she wants to ruin my bloody wedding.”
    “Alright, our bloody wedding . God, Dom, what is your problem ? Don’t you care about this? Don’t you see what she’s doing? Don’t you mind that she absolutely ruined my life and took over every single birthday party since I was, like, twelve?”
    Which, considering the childhood that Dominic Mouret had discussed in his book, seemed a little rich. I looked to Caz to make a comment and she wasn’t there. Then I heard her voice – clear and distinct – issue from the bar.
    “Ah, there you are. Thought I’d nip out to the offy and get some decent fizz to toast tonight. Give me a hand? You don’t mind if I borrow your fiancé, do you?” she asked, I supposed, Dominic, who murmured, I supposed, his willing assent and then I heard the pub door open and swing shut.
    I stepped into the bar and found Dominic Mouret; his short dark hair tousled carelessly; his full lips pursed moodily in a frame of chiselled cheekbones, firm jawline and a chin with a cleft deep enough to drown a kitten in; his eyes squinting against the low winter sun coming weakly through the frosted windows as he hunched over a scotch – the last of the genuine Johnny Walker I presumed. A smoking cigarette was filling the bar with a greyish tint; in an empty tumbler before him two nicotine corpses already lay decomposing.
    “Bit early for that, isn’t it?” I commented, glancing, in succession at the clock displaying eleven am and the tumbler of scotch, and wondering whether I was the only pub landlord on the planet trying to discourage his punters from drinking before lunchtime.
    Then, remembering what had just transpired upstairs, what Mouret had just been subjected to by Jenny Foster and what the night might well hold in store for me if Lyra didn’t get her act – in every sense of the word – together, I too reached for and filled a tumbler full of vodka.
    I swigged it and winced. I’d been unlucky – clearly the Absolut had already been replaced with the Absolutely-undrinkable. I added tonic water and ice, and tried again.
    Dominic dragged on his cigarette – a long, slow drag that seemed to pull the smoke down into his very soul – and I thought Jesus, you’re one beautiful man , then caught myself and apropos of nothing said “You know, they’ve banned smoking in pubs now. Mad, isn’t it?”
    “What?” For the first time, he seemed to actually see me and glanced at the cigarette in his hand. “Oh, sorry,” he muttered and went to stub it out.
    “No,” I put a hand out to stop him.